


The Ties that Bind

by Metrickulous



Series: The Ties That Bind [1]
Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, Bondage, Chair Bondage, Deaf Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humiliation, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Love, M/M, Romance, Rope Bondage, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8344330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metrickulous/pseuds/Metrickulous
Summary: Numbers waited.He couldn’t move his hands. His wrists were bound tightly to the wooden arms of a chair. He tried to move his feet, but only his toes could move; through his boots and denim jeans, ropes secured his ankles to the feet of the chair. And it was dark inside the burlap hood over his head.So Numbers waited.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Speaking”  
> \--Signing  
> Scenes begin with present time and then go to a flash back.

Numbers waited.  
He couldn’t move his hands. His wrists were bound tightly to the wooden arms of a chair. He tried to move his feet, but only his toes could move; through his boots and denim jeans, ropes secured his ankles to the feet of the chair. And it was dark inside the burlap hood over his head.  
So Numbers waited.

 

\--Remember when we used to tie each other up as kids?  
Numbers remembered. They’d play cowboys or heroes and villains and catch one another and tie them to a tree with jump ropes. He preferred to be the hero because the hero got to be tied up. The hero in movies always got tied up; Indiana Jones, Batman, James Bond. But Wrench got tired of being the bad guy all the time, so Numbers agreed to let him be the hero. The first time, Numbers over eagerly tied his friend to a tree and Wrench shook his head and mumbled, unable to use his hands trapped at his side. He quickly freed his hands and they decided to throw a baseball around instead. Numbers was worried they'd never get to play this game again. But Wrench wasn’t one to shy away from his fears. His pride, however, was another story and instead of being the villain, Numbers made the two of them a pair of heroes who get kidnapped, sometimes together, sometimes separately by an invisible enemy. He couldn’t decide what he like more, the struggling around in a tangle of jump ropes or when his friend would heroically come to rescue him. Looking back, Numbers really should have realized where this whole thing was going for himself as an adult.  
\--Yeah, I remember. You want to have some fun?  
He signed with a wicked grin.  
\--I want to do it for work.  
Numbers laughed aloud. Wrench was always making him laugh.  
\--For work? What does that even mean?  
\--If you didn’t realize, we’re in the sort of work where we can get captured. And interrogated. We’ve done it to others. Why’s it so hard to imagine that our luck might go south?  
\--First of all, it’s not luck. We’re good at what we do. Second, those people we interrogate are nobodies. So who exactly do you think it is that’s going to nab us?  
\--Other syndicates. Minneapolis. Mankato. St. Paul. Omaha. Any other syndicate who wants information from us.  
He did have a point. Numbers liked to think that the two of them had each other's back so well that they’d never have to end up in that situation. He could have argued this to Wrench, like he did so many other things, but he wanted to have a little fun. He could not pass up an opportunity to have fun with his partner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Speaking”  
> \--Signing  
> Scenes begin with present time and then go to a flash back.

Numbers listened carefully. He held his breath and listened for the most important clue to him at the moment. Then he heard it; the steady, slow breathing. It was the breathing he unconsciously trained himself to memorize when he would wake up in the middle of the night with the bite of insomnia and hear the uninterrupted slumber of his partner. He would watch the rise and fall of his partner’s chest and tried to hypnotize himself to return to sleep. He would close his eyes and try to match the rhythm of his breathing and he would catch another few moments of sleep.  
So Wrench was alive. His first priority was met.  
Now to figure out who their captors were. Clearly, they’d been ambushed. The assignment was to get the jump on a guy who’d been stiffing the syndicate and find out what he did with the rest of the money. But there had been more than one guy at the cabin. And the blinding flash of light hadn’t prepared either of them for getting hit over the head and blacking out.  
Maybe it was another syndicate, like Wrench had predicted. But who was it, then? Omaha had been quiet for years now. And La Crosse was a long way out to have come into their territory.  
That’s when the burlap had been lifted over his head. The person who pulled it off of him was dressed in all black and wore a mask. _How clichéd._ The man-- he had the figure of a man-- walked away from him, around him.  
Numbers steeled himself. Now was what he’d been training for with Wrench. The interrogation. The torture. What would they do to him? Jam a knife under his fingernails? Yank out one of his teeth with pliers? He’d gone through many of these scenarios in his head when he lay awake at night, so he was prepared. And he had trained himself to meditate as a way to deal with the pain, to float away from his body, away from his pain. He’d been hurt before and he could wait out the pain from a gunshot, gritting his teeth until he can drink enough whiskey to numb himself while Wrench pulled out the bullet and sewed him up.  
He heard the hum of an electric cattle prod. So, electric shocks, was it? Those were easy to handle. They were quick in terms of pain and if his interrogators were idiots who left it on him too long, he’d pass out and they’d have no luck with answers.  
But nothing happened to him.  
Instead he heard a yelp-- the voice of someone who’d been surprised to feel a shock, like they couldn’t hear the whine of the prod.  
Wrench.  
_No need to panic,_ he thought. _Wrench is just as strong as me. Besides, once they start asking him questions and find out that he can’t answer them, they’ll just turn to me. That’s right, draw them to me, away from Wrench. I can handle this._  
But they didn’t ask any questions. No one spoke. And Numbers heard the snap of leather against skin and the jingling of chains and he started to panic.

The first session of training didn’t go as seriously as planned. Numbers volunteered to go first, of course. He was downright giddy when Wrench took his wrists and put them behind his back. He could feel his skin pimpling as the rope twisted one, twice, five times around his wrists- Wrench was not messing around.  
“My feet, too. Do my feet,” Numbers said as Wrench twirled him around and sat him on the bed. To make it as ‘realistic as possible’, as Wrench wanted, he would sign but Numbers would speak as if talking to his hearing-interrogator. And getting physical wasn’t off the table; The ‘safe word’ they decided, would be Numbers sticking his tongue out.  
\--Who sent you, Wrench signed.  
Numbers played it cool. “Your mother.”  
Wrench gave him a rough slap-- a little harder than Numbers anticipated. To his surprise, he felt a pressure against his fly. When he was a boy, he’d felt excitement in his corduroys whenever he tried to struggle out of his jump rope binds. Now it made sense, those tingling feelings. Later, as he got older, he would have those feelings when looking at his friend, or when Wrench was giving him _that look_ or when his partner nibbled on his neck.  
Numbers turned back to interrogator-Wrench and tried to ignore the excitement in his stomach.  
\--I asked you nicely. But if you don’t want to cooperate, I don’t have to be so gentle.  
Numbers couldn’t keep the excitement down. A grin spread across his face and he enunciated quietly, “I don’t like it when you’re gentle.”  
Wrench shoved him backwards onto the bed and Numbers laughed the whole way down. He rolled around as Wrench loomed over him.  
“How did I do?”  
\--You did good up until the giggle fit. I like the smile, but the cockiness might get you an extra couple of missing teeth.  
“And you wouldn’t want this beautiful mug to be messed up.”  
\--Yeah, it’s the only thing you got going for you.  
They didn’t get any more interrogating done that night, unless their kidnappers planned on getting their answers by spooning them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Speaking”  
> \--Signing  
> Scenes begin with present time and then go to a flash back.

Numbers’ hands slowly clenched and unclenched. He seethed in his seat. He dug his fingernails into the wooden arms of the chair. He knew the voice that escaped despite its effort to be held in after each whip was his partner Wrench’s. After the initial yelp of surprise, Wrench muffled his noise over the next dozen hits. He was trying to be tough. He’d been tough in his training.  
Numbers focused his eyes on the figure now standing in front of him, trying to set him on fire with only a glare.  
The man in the mask raised his gloved fist over his head.  
The noises behind him stopped.  
The man in the mask walked towards Numbers slowly, almost hesitantly. He put his hand on the back of the chair and the chair screeched on the wooden floor as he turned it around.  
Wrench was not in a chair, like Numbers pitctured. Instead he was strung up to the rafters by a hanging metal hook, his wrists rubbed red from the rope that tied them together and to the hook. He hung stretched out, the toes of his boots scraping the wooden floor. The bruises began to blossom on his bare torso and some scratches seeped red. The thing that filled Numbers with equal amounts of fear and rage was the last thing he noticed; they had blindfolded his deaf partner.

 

\--I want you to blindfold me.  
Wrench had signed it after a few weeks of their training. Their sessions had been going well, each more successful than the last. Numbers played along better when Wrench promised him a reward afterwards.  
Numbers scrunched his eyebrows down.  
\--You won’t see my lips then.  
The first time Wrench was tied up, he asked his partner not to sign. He explained their kidnappers wouldn’t be signing, so Numbers should be speaking. But with a blindfold? How would this be an interrogation at all?  
\--If we’re unlucky enough not to be killed, our interrogators don’t want us to see their faces or where they’re bringing us.  
It made sense, once Numbers thought about it. Their captors wouldn’t know Wrench was deaf, and who knows how long they’d yell at a man with his hands tied and who couldn’t tell them he was deaf. Even if Wrench did sign, they wouldn’t know what to make of his gestures.  
\--Well, then how will you know what I’m asking you?  
\--I won’t.  
No, their captors wouldn’t show any mercy. The thought made Numbers feel a wave of insomnia even though he was awake. He rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger.  
\--So, what’s the point of this, Wes?  
Wrench could read Numbers better than he could his own reflection. He cupped his hands around his partner’s bearded face and gave him a reassuring look. He knew his partner lay awake some nights, and he could tell what he was thinking. He could feel the anxiety and tension stirring around in his partner’s mind. Wrench would try his best to soothe him with deep, calming breaths to get him back to sleep. Now, in this moment they shared, he took a deep breath and he was glad when his partner mimicked him; he had asked him to with his eyes. They were so close, they could almost read each other's mind.  
\--I want to do this because I want to not be afraid. Will you help me?  
Numbers just shook his head yes to answer him.  
\--Do you know what I think about to distract myself from the pain? Or the cold? I think of you.  
He was overwhelmed with affection. He felt like a cup overflowing with emotions, the same emotions he often tried to squash down inside him.  
Numbers chuckled.  
\--Really? Why? Because I'm a bigger pain?  
Now Wrench smirked.  
\--No, because everything’s not so bad when I’m with you. You give me strength.You make me warm. So if it helps to know it, I'll be thinking of you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Speaking”  
> \--Signing  
> Scenes begin with present time and then go to a flash back.

The silence in the room was cut with the whip of a leather strap.  
Wrench stifled the brunt of his scream, but Numbers didn’t hold back. His screams began as threats. He promised to find these men in masks and rip their tongues, to shove needles in their urethras, to burn everything they knew and loved to the ground. He rocked in the chair, pulling the ropes against his wrists so that they bit into his flesh. He thought he might pull off the arm of the chair or maybe even his own arm.  
The men in masks ignored him and stoically continued in no particular pattern to break whips against Wrench’s flesh. Sometimes it was with a real whip ( _who the fuck had a real whip these days?_ ) and sometimes they alternated with the cattle prod. But it was random; Wrench wouldn't be able to count the pattern to know what was next.  
Numbers was absolutely rabid. Now instead of screaming threats in complete sentences, it was gibberish. Curses flew from his mouth like spit and he tossed so much that the chair toppled over with him in it. He hardly noticed and at least it stopped the men in masks from beating his friend, if only for a second. Two men came over and righted his chair. Numbers took the opportunity to to sink his teeth into his captor’s arm. That certainly got everyone's attention to give Wrench a brief moment of solace. The man grunted and pulled his arm away, but Numbers wouldn't let go. The fists that rained down on his face wouldn’t make him let go. He would endure anything if it meant saving Wrench.  
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders and others turned his face to look at his friend’s disheveled figure. They began whipping him again and all Numbers could do was scream and lob profanities at the men in masks. He would fight even when he had no energy left, but a terrifying thought came to his mind. _It didn't matter about him; how long could Wrench hold on?_  
Number’s rants turned to begging, quietly at first, and then shamelessly.  
“Please… Please stop… I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything you want. Just stop. Stop hitting him… I'll give you anything! Please! What do you want? What is it? Do you want names? I can give you names! I'll give you anything you want, just please stop!”  
In a signal unseen by him, they stopped. With the clinking of chains unheard by their captive, Wrench was lowered to his feet. But he could barely hold himself up, and when his tied hands were taken from the hook, he slumped onto the floor. His ribs quivered as though it hurt to breath and he lay in a heap on the cool surface.  
Numbers could see out of the corner of his eye, which had begun to close from swelling, several more men enter the room.  
The man in the mask, the one who turned Numbers around to watch Wrench’s torture, leaned in very close to Number’s ear and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”  
The familiar voice gave him away, gave them all away, so that Numbers did not need to take his eyes off of Wrench to know that the figure nearing them was the Bismark Syndicate Boss.  
His father.

 

Their first practice began with Numbers repeating all of the instructions before blindfolding Wrench. He was stalling, more nervous than Wrench seemed to be. Wrench’s demeanor was like a serene pond, with a smooth glassy surface of water. He sat in the wooden chair with a straight back, his wrists bound to the arms, ankles to the legs, and ropes even around his chest to keep him from squirming. But he looked like the binds weren't even there, like Wrench was naturally sitting and waiting to be served coffee at a diner. Numbers was going over information multiple times, making Wrench repeat their safe word (snapping his fingers) and a backup safe word (sticking out his tongue), checking the ropes on his wrists and ankles, and testing the sturdiness of the chair.  
\--Do you need to go to the bathroom?  
Wrench gave him an impatient look and clasped his fingers together. --No!  
Numbers took a deep breath.  
\--Ready?  
Wrench nodded, confidence exhumed from him. _Damn, he was good at this._  
He moved the cloth towards Wrench’s face and saw his eyes close as if he was preparing to meditate. Twice he gently wrapped the cloth around him, just as his partner instructed.  
Then, also as instructed, he spoke.  
“Who sent you?”  
He said it in a normal speaking voice first.  
Many people had asked Wrench how much he could hear. Some asked from a genuine interest and others asked incredulously, but everyone asked because they wanted to know how someone could _really be deaf_ when they were so _functional_. But Wrench only told Numbers what he could hear, probably because Numbers had never asked.  
\--You have a nice voice.  
Wrench had signed it, one handed with the toothbrush still in his mouth, after Numbers stepped out of the shower in their apartments bathroom. Numbers looked at him, confused.  
\--In the shower. I heard you.  
His partner was even more confused, if slightly embarrassed, as he wrapped himself in a towel.  
\--I didn’t know I had an audience.  
\--I just heard the tune. The words are just mumbling to me.  
\--But was it a good mumbling?  
Wrench shook his outstretched right hand, --so so.  
Numbers slapped him with another towel.  
But now, strapped to a chair, Wrench did not respond to Number’s question.  
Numbers asked again. “Who sent you?”  
No response.  
Now was the hard part. He slapped his hand across Wrench’s face. It was a weak slap, but his partner didn’t see it coming and lost rhythm in his steady breathing. Quickly, he returned to his scowl and faced forward.  
Numbers hit harder this time. The faster he did this, the sooner it would be over, he thought.  
“Who sent you!”  
He couldn’t decide what was worse, the hitting or the screaming. Sure, they’d gotten in physical fights before, also ‘for work’, but they’d been evenly matched each time.  
“Answer me!”  
No, it was the screaming. The screaming was worse. He knew his partner couldn’t understand him. He thought about how Wrench could possibly end up in a situation like this, how they could be separated and in trouble. Where would Numbers be if his partner was in trouble? Would he be dead? How else could he let Wrench be abandoned, afraid and tortured physically and emotionally at the prospect of dying alone.  
The thought left Numbers shaking. How could he be so helpless when his partner needed him?  
Wrench’s hands were balled into fists, bulging in the ropes that held them to the chair. Numbers wanted nothing more than to take him away from all this, to rescue him. He gently touched his partner’s hand and massaged it. Slowly, slowly, the fist melted and both his hands relaxed.  
Numbers crept closer. His desire to comfort became stronger, became more animalistic. An urge pressed itself against the zipper of his fly. He inched towards Wrench’s lips, the lips that he spent extended periods of time staring at. They were tall like mountain peaks. They were dextrous. They responded quickly when he pressed his own against them; Wrench didn’t need sight to anticipate what was next.  
Now Wrench’s hands were grasping outward, struggling to get out of the ties, not to escape and run but to be unrestrained and to devour. Numbers lifted the blindfold off of his head and saw that Wrench’s eyes were hungry.  
Good.  
Numbers snaked his hand down Wrench’s chest, to his torso and under the button of his pants. He felt the tangle of curls and the bulge in his partner’s jeans. Wrench broke their kiss and gasped hot breath into Number’s mouth. Numbers sped up enthusiastically. He was focused only on pleasing Wrench. His partner was generous with Numbers, and it wasn’t often that Wrench got all the attention to himself. Wrench bucked in his chair and for scant moments Numbers thought he would actually break free; or maybe they’d break the chair. Wrench’s hands twitched in their binds, wanting to grab clothes, hips, anything. He bit into the tattoo on Number’s clavicle.  
_Boundaries._  
Eventually, Wrench’s struggling ceased and his muscles relaxed. The deep gulps of breath his partner took told Numbers that he’d done a good job. Numbers rested his forehead on his partner’s, feeling the hot breath in his face. But Wrench eased up for only a moment, and he leaned forward and sucked Numbers into a kiss, pulling at the top of his lip.  
Numbers stepped back, smiling, to admire his work. His expert ties were still in place, but nearly all of Wrench was undone; his shirt opened, his fly unzipped, his hair and mutton chops standing at all ends.  
Numbers signed, --So, are you going to tell me who sent you now?  
Wrench was dumbfounded for only a second, then flipped him the bird.  
Numbers chuckled.  
\--Maybe I should just leave you like this.  
Wrench thought to sign something witty, like _then who in a hundred mile radius is going to eat your ass?_ But with the rope secured around his wrist, he couldn’t even bring his hand up to his chin to sign ‘Who’. Frustrated, he frowned and sufficed with flipping off his partner with both hands.  
Numbers remained smiling, but felt a little bad for leaving his partner without a way to retort. He undid the ties on the chair, on Wrench’s right hand, and then his left. Wrench grabbed his partner’s butt and pulled him into his lap. He trapped Numbers on his lap even though he was still partially tied to the chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I'm most proud of. I hope you enjoyed it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Speaking”  
> \--Signing  
> Scenes begin with present time and then go to a flash back.

“Anything,” his father said. “You said ‘I'll give you anything’.”  
All the masks were turned to watch the Bismark Syndicate boss. He strolled through the room with an offensively casual air and looked down on his mauled employee with pity, as though he hadn’t orchestrated this.  
“Such a shame.” He said it like he was looking at a dog that got hit by a car. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” The question was directed at his son who hadn't bothered to even glance at him.  
“How dare you!” Numbers spat. “How dare you blindfold him, you sick fuck!”  
“That’s no way to talk to the man who holds your life in his hands.”  
The boss gestured to the men in masks. They cut Numbers out of the chair, and he slumped forward, falling to his knees, not realizing how weak his legs would be. But he felt weak all over.  
“So let me get this straight. You’re not upset that you came here under false pretenses, that you’ve gotten the shit beat out of you, that you’re now realizing that you’ve failed such a simple test. All you care about is that he can’t see? You’re in deeper than I thought, son.”  
Wrench had slipped the blindfold off his eyes and everything came to him in sudden, blinding horror; Number’s swollen eye and the chair behind him strewn with ropes, the red lines on his wrists and his normally perfect hair in disarray meant that his friend had undergone torture also. But it was the look in his eyes that crushed him. Numbers was beaten. Defeated. Wrench began crawling to him, despite the incredible aching in his arms, but a huge boot came down on his back and blew the wind out of him. That's when he noticed the men, or at least counted the bodies of how many men there were. He had felt the vibration of a few footsteps but the biggest tip off to him was that nasty cologne one of the underlings always wore. He wasn't that surprised it was Bismarck who kidnapped them. He and Numbers had been mostly careful. But when he followed Number’s gaze and saw the syndicate boss, he knew it wasn't just about sleeping with other men; it was the fact that he was sleeping with the boss’ son.  
“What do you want?” it was the first direct response from Numbers. Wrench read his lips. There was blood between his bottom teeth, but was it his blood or someone else's?  
“I want you to beg, for forgiveness. Not as my employee, but as my son. I want you to beg.”  
He couldn't have been more humiliated. It really couldn't get any lower for him. And if he could look at himself now from any other point in his life, he'd be ashamed at how quickly he would debase himself to beg. But today, he did it in a heartbeat, for Wrench.  
“Please-”  
“No. Look at me.”  
Numbers stayed kneeled. His father probably wanted him on his knees and god knows Numbers would hate to hear those words come out of his mouth. He turned to look at his father’s face. It looked the same as when Numbers would get into a fight with a bully at school or be brought home by the police. It was his father’s disappointed face. His whole childhood, Numbers had tried to make his father proud. He’d even gotten into the family business for it, thought liking his job didn’t hurt. But now he wanted nothing more than to slap that look off his face. He felt like a teenager again, furious at his father but still afraid of him. It was a sick kind of hate that stirred in his stomach.  
It was the same feeling he had on the day his father caught him.  
He was a teenager, and he thought he was alone in the house. He’d planned it for weeks. He’d bought rope that he collected from around town, in warehouses and from the local hardware shop. He’d soaked them in boiling water to clean and soften them. Then he’d waited for the day. His father was on a business trip and his mother was at her weekly dialysis appointment at the doctor’s. He tied his ankles first. No longer were the knots sloppy like he’d done with jump ropes and 8 year old hands. These were hands that had researched, and practiced knots from old sailor’s manuals in the library. First his ankles, then his knees, a strip of tape over his mouth. His wrists were last, and with a few twists and a pull on the cinch, he was tightly secured. He wiggled around on the ground to test out his bindings. They were to his liking and he became excited. His thoughts quickly turned to his friend, Wes. He’d always been taller than Grady, but recently he’d also gotten thicker. Instead of being thin as a beanpole, his arms filled out the sleeves of his t-shirts. It was just last summer that he was the tall, skinny kid with burnt auburn hair. But after shedding his winter coat, Wes was suddenly outgrowing his clothes in a different way. Thinking about it gave Grady the same feelings as being tightly hugged by binds. He thought about how nice it would be to have Wes find him and untie him, like when they were kids, but this time he would hold him in his arms... preferably shirtless… and he’d press his hands against his chest… and they’d kiss...  
He’d only spend less than half an hour squirming around on the floor when the door burst open. He hadn’t even heard the footsteps. It was the last person in the world he’d want to see him like this.  
Perhaps his father could assume that someone had broken into his house and his son had been tied up by robbers. But that thought quickly left his mind when he saw his wife’s recognizable underwear on his son.  
“You little shit,” his father muttered.  
Before Grady could tear the tape off his mouth and pull the loop loose from his wrists with his teeth, his father grabbed him by the arm and threw him back onto the ground. He couldn’t catch his footing with his ankles bound. He crashed to the ground and a yelp escaped his lungs, stopped by the barrier of the tape. He tried to get the tape off again and he was able to peel just under the corner when the first slap came down. It was the leather side of his father’s belt that stung his bare back.  
He grabbed his son and threw him on his lap. On his own bed, Grady was spanked like he was a bad child with his father’s belt. He was so humiliated, he couldn’t talk or sleep or eat for days afterwards. He even hid from his friend. Wes found him in the woods, pale and shaking.  
\--What’s wrong? What’s wrong?  
His friend kept signing, but Grady couldn’t raise his hands to answer. He couldn’t even form a sentence in his mind. He just started sobbing. Wes held out his hands, not to sign to him, but to make a place where his friend could collapse into them.  
Grady stayed at Wes’ house for a few days. His father didn’t ask him to come home, but his mother was worried about him. He came home for her, and he didn’t regret it. She died about a year later.  
And now, he would do it again. He would cave to his father’s wishes for the only person left on earth that he loved.  
“Please… Please forgive me…”  
“And what will you give me if I forgive you?”  
Neither of them blinked. They stared at each other like wolves, waiting to see who would make the first move before they’d jump at each other’s throats.  
“Loyalty. You’ll know everywhere I go and everything I do. And I’ll complete any order you give me, without question… just let him go, and I’ll do anything you ask for the rest of my life.”  
His father said nothing for a while. He just paced around the small room. Numbers began panting, unable to hold his breath any longer.  
“Was it worth it?”  
Numbers was quiet.  
“You were going to give up everything, and for what? One man? So, was he worth it, son?”  
He gestured with just a finger and two men picked up the beaten man on the floor and pulled him to his knees. Now the two partners known as Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers were kneeling, facing each other.  
“No, no just let him go! Kill me instead! Just let him go and you’ll never see him again!”  
“You’re not in a position to negotiate, son.”  
One of his father’s henchmen put pressure on Number’s shoulder, holding him in a kneeling position. _This was it._  
The figure who had whispered an apology in Number’s ear stepped over to Wrench. It was Aussie. His face was free of the mask, but still and unmoving as though he was wearing a mask of his own face. In his right hand was a gun.  
“No, Aussie, don't do this! Please!” Numbers howled, his voice now cracking. He was looking to Aussie, a different man, for mercy now. He’d get none from his father, who stood to his side as though they’d come together to watch his beloved’s execution.  
“He won't listen to you, son. Mr. Jergen and all the men here know how easily they could end up in your shoes. That's the price of disloyalty.”  
It didn’t- no, it _wouldn’t_ \- stop Numbers from trying. 

“No.”

Aussie raised the gun.

“Please.”

<><><>

\--What is it that you like about being tied up?  
They’d just finished cleaning up after an evening of more training. Well, less training and more messing around. Numbers was pretty sure that nipple pinching was not an interrogation technique, much as he enjoyed it. When he’d stepped out of the bathroom, Wrench was sitting upright in bed, one of his many books in his lap. _God, he looks cute in those reading glasses._  
\--Really? You want to talk about this?  
\--I did something I was afraid of. Now it’s your turn.  
\--You can be a real pain in my ass sometimes.  
Wrench shrugged.  
\--Ok, I don’t have to tie you up again ever. You know, if you hate it so much.  
Wrench started to reach to the bedside table to turn off the lamp, but Numbers moved to stop him. He sat down on the bed.  
\--Alright, fine. I like… I like the struggle. And the feeling of being, I don’t know, helpless? I haven’t really thought about it before.  
\--You _like_ being helpless?  
Wrench raised his eyebrows to emphasize the fact that he couldn’t believe someone would enjoy being so vulnerable.  
\--Hey, don’t judge me! I said I haven’t thought about it.  
When Wrench rubbed his fist over his chest to say sorry, Numbers knew it was genuine. How could his partner, who joked and teased, also be full of such strong compassion?  
\--I like being helpless because then I get to be rescued.  
Wrench’s mouth curled into a smile and he knew that was genuine, too.  
\--Now go back to reading. You look fucking adorable in those glasses.  
Later that evening, as Numbers lie faced upwards, staring at the ceiling, Wrench was awake, too. But instead of trying to help his partner get to sleep, he rolled over and began to sign to him.  
\--Do you ever feel… trapped? Here?  
\--In our… apartment?  
Wrench gently rolled his eyes.  
\--Oh, in our job. What, you mean because of my father?  
Wrench pressed his lips together. The boss had never even talked to him. Maybe it was a combination of the tall, silent man not hearing a word of his orders or the fact that he was always looking to his son.  
\--I was thinking there wasn’t room for a promotion.  
His partner smirked through his beard. It was only for a moment.  
\--We could leave.  
Wrench signed it, but Numbers had thought about it in his sleepless nights. They’d both dreamed about it, when they were asleep and when they were awake and on the job.  
Where would they go? It was too serious a train of thought to go down for Wrench.  
\--We can always lie on our RESUME.  
He fingerspelled out resume because neither of them needed to learn the sign for it.  
This made his partner’s smile last longer.  
\--You could work at… a coffee shop.  
Numbers scoffed. --A coffee shop? Why?  
\--You love coffee.  
\--Just because I love coffee doesn’t mean it has to be my job.  
\--Why not?  
\--In that case. You would work at a library.  
Wrench thought about it for a moment. It made sense. People wouldn’t be yelling to get his attention if they needed help. And he loved books. He could read a whole library full of books from one cover to the end of the last. Wrench nodded.  
\--And if anyone bothers you, you can just--  
Numbers put his finger to his lips and shushed.  
Wrench laughed out loud at the thought of shushing someone when he had little to judge them on how loud they were really being. It was deep and guttural.  
Wrench made Numbers laugh all the time, but it took a lot to make him laugh. There was a light in Numbers, who took it as a personal achievement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back after another successful month of Nanowrimo. Also this was not the easiest chapter to write. I hope you enjoyed it. Almost at the end.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Speaking”  
> \--Signing  
> Scenes begin with present time and then go to a flash back.

Aussie pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed over Wrench’s head, over Number’s head, and straight into the Bismark syndicate boss’ left breast.  
Numbers acted quickly. Adrenaline was already screaming through his body. He yanked the gun out of left bodyguard's hand before the man could straighten his aim. Numbers aimed the barrel into the stomach and pulled the trigger. Aussie shot the bodyguard on the right and like that the three men fell.  
With his father lying on the floor motionless, and his two bodyguards losing blood quickly, Numbers and Aussie trained their guns around the room.  
Numbers spoke, his voice now commanding and no longer shaking. “Before any of you gets any ideas, listen. He would have done this to anyone of you. He would have stuffed any of you in a bag full of bricks and into The Missouri without a second thought if it would save his ass. You don’t owe him anything, especially now that he’s dead.”  
The other hitmen of Bismarck reacted like they didn’t even need to hear Numbers’ plea. They relaxed their poised hands from their gun holsters and backed away. They all collectively knew that their boss ruled them with fear, even if they had never expressed it to one another.  
They took off their masks as though they had been freed from some spell. They took off their masks one at a time, each revealing the face of a man with an ordinary life somewhere beyond this cabin and this job. They left as though leaving a bus station. Aussie watched them get in their cars and drive away.  
Numbers examined his partner  
\--Is anything broken?  
\--Just skin… I think.  
Numbers helped Wrench up to his feet, but they were both so weak from torture, both physically and emotionally, that they ended up holding on to each other just to stand.  
Aussie came back into the room as the engine of the last car roared away.  
“I’m so sorry. I couldn’t even warn ya. They just drove me here and they gave me the outfit. I’m so sorry! I swear I would’ve tipped you off if I just had more time!”  
Numbers put his hand up and signed --it’s fine.  
Aussie didn’t know sign language, but got the gesture and stopped blubbering.  
The partners paused before leaving the room, facing an obstruction on the floor before them. At their feet was the Bismarck Syndicate boss. Numbers had almost forgotten about him, as though his father had left the room with the rest of the men. His eyes were closed. His mouth was slightly open, like he was in his armchair back home, asleep in front of the TV while Numbers’ mother made dinner without his help. At least when he was asleep, he didn’t yell at his wife and child.  
“Do you need a moment?” Aussie’s voice cut through the silence.  
Numbers mustered up all he could in his dry mouth and spit like firing a gun. It landed on his father’s chest. His father did not move.  
They took his father’s car, the only one left on the lot. In the back seat, Wrench, now wearing someone’s jacket, sunk into the seat. Wrench did not want to have a conversation. He refused to lay down and remained vigilant with his eyes on the road. Although he did allow Numbers to massage his reddened wrists.  
Their apartment seemed different when Aussie dropped them off. They stumbled in and everything seemed colder and lonelier, like they were returning to their apartment after abandoning it for years. Numbers gave a quick glance around the living room for any sign of foul play, but saw everything in its place from when they had left. It was only hours ago that they left the warm comfort of their bed and were bound with rope, squeezing their wrists, and the cold air enveloped them and laid heavy bricks in their lungs. It would seem that everywhere Numbers went, the feeling of lonesomeness would follow him. Even in his own home. Even with his partner.  
Wrench had his back to him, his shoulders slumped and shivering as though suddenly cold.  
Two voices battled in Numbers’ head. One was the voice of doubt that was planted by his father and grew stronger when watered by his anxieties. The other was logical and used reason to brush aside his paranoia:  
_Is he mad at me? How can he be mad at me? This wasn’t my fault. No, it’s not about the past few hours. It’s for all his life. I’ve messed up his entire life by dragging him along. Ever since we were kids. Dammit, I really fucked up. All my life I’ve been nothing but a fuck up._  
Numbers left his thoughts and gingerly touched his partner’s shoulder. Wrench did not turn around. He also did not brush Numbers away. Instead he let out a noise Numbers had never heard before; a sob.  
When he did turn around, Wrench’s face was dripping with snot and tears, like a faucet that just wouldn't turn off. Numbers had never seen his friend cry so hard. Wrench was usually the one comforting him. Numbers gently took Wrench’s shoulders in his hands.  
With hands close to his chest, Wrench signed in small movements.  
\--I was so scared... I thought you were dead.  
Numbers couldn’t believe it. The whole time his partner was lost in a dark, silent world of painful shocks and stinging whips and he was afraid for Numbers’ life.  
Numbers held Wrench close in his arms.  
The both of them swallowed as many ibuprofen as they could without killing themselves, took a luxuriously long hot shower, and then collapsed on the bed with all the blankets they had in the apartment. Numbers held a bag of frozen peas to the swollen side of his face and smoothed antiseptic cream into the cuts on Wrench’s back. After feeling two pats on his back, Wrench lowered himself backwards so his head lay in Numbers’ lap. Numbers held it and twisted a curl near Wrench’s temple. He looked into those green blue eyes that drank him in. He kissed his partner on the bridge of his nose and left his lips lingering there. 

<><><>  
Grady’s mother’s hospital room was painted light blue and had a window. Wes thought to himself that they give the rooms with windows to people who were going to be in the hospital a long time. _Kind of like getting a promotion in an office, in a sick sort of way._ He decided to keep that thought to himself, even though he shared nearly all his thoughts with Grady. He’d hide this thought away with the ones where Grady was wearing a black leather jacket and nothing else.  
Grady and Wes had been coming to the hospital every day for a few weeks. With each visit, the beloved woman in the hospital bed had grown more frail, lost more energy. But Wes’ best friend put on a brave face. Grady kissed her on the forehead. He could be strong for his mother. But Wes knew that when his friend’s mother died, part of his friend would die with her.  
Grady told her that he’d see her tomorrow and left the room, to the water bubbler where he could gulp down his sobs. But Wes waited to make eye contact with Grady’s mother so he could say goodbye. Before he could move his hands to chest level, she lifted her own arms from the hospital bed.  
With weak hands, she signed in small movements, --Please look after him.  
She’d learned sign language when his own mother wouldn’t. She’d remember signs as soon as she learned them.  
\--I promise with all my heart.  
He had made the promise to himself long before he signed it to her.  
She moved her hand from her chin with relief. --Thank you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Speaking”  
> \--Signing  
> Scenes begin with present time and then go to a flash back.

Aussie snapped his cell phone shut as he sat down in the apartment of Numbers and Wrench. The kitchen table was stacked with empty dishes and strewn forks. When Numbers woke up, he immediately cooked all the eggs in the fridge, followed by a whole loaf’s worth of toast and the frozen turkey sausages that were Wrench’s favorite. They were both nursing their third cup of coffee; The first one was drunk in great gulps and the second was finished before all the eggs had been cooked. Breakfast foods were one of Numbers’ greatest comforts.  
He offered Aussie more coffee and asked, “Who did you call?”  
Aussie waved his hand, refusing a refill when his cup was half full. “Another syndicate. Said if he got down to the cabin to clean this up, he could have our slice of territory.”  
If they left the cabin as it was, someone would eventually stumble upon it, smell the rotting flesh of three decomposing bodies and call the police. Numbers wanted to burn down the cabin, but it was too rash a decision. That would send the authorities in sooner and even a charred body could be identified by its teeth. Then they’d identify his father and Numbers would be contacted, or worse, become a suspect.  
“So, who is it?”  
“Some fellas from Fargo are coming out.”  
“Fargo? I thought everyone in that family was dead fifteen years ago.”  
“They are. Well, most of them, anyway. Someone picked it back up. Figured someone desperate to rebuild an operation would also make a deal with me.”  
“What deal?”  
“For... new recruits.”  
“Aussie…”  
“It’s not a guarantee. He just wanted to speak with us...”  
Numbers took a long sip of coffee, thinking.  
“You’re not... mad, are you?”  
“I’m impressed. You work fast, Mr. Jergen.”  
“What, you think they kept me around just for my looks?”  
“I was going to say it was the fun accent.”  
Wrench had hardly paid too much attention to their conversation. He trusted Numbers to tell him about anything important later. But Numbers could barely start the conversation in his imagination, so his hands never formed a single sign of the conversation until they were prepared to leave.  
\--Where are we going?  
\--I’m going with Aussie to meet with FARGO. Maybe I can convince them to give me a job. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.  
\--I’m coming with you.  
\--No!  
\--Why not? Why the fuck would I not come with you? Why would you keep it a secret from me?  
Wrench would immediately detect any bullshit, so Numbers told the truth with shaky hands.  
\--Wes… I watched them… They made me watch when they...  
He couldn’t bring himself to sign torture. The sounds he heard his partner make, the sounds he heard himself make, echoed in every corner of his mind when the lights were out.  
\--You don’t have to go with me. You can go anywhere you want. You can work in a library. You don’t even have to work. I’ll pay for everything.  
Wrench didn’t wait for Numbers to stop signing. --I want to go with you.  
\--Why? It’s just going to be the same risks over and over-  
\--I want to go with _YOU_. Wherever you go, I go. Wherever I am, I want you to be by my side.  
Numbers was, well, signless.  
Wrench signed, --I’m not letting you out of my sight.  
His partner grinned under his beard.  
Before they drove off to Fargo, Wrench turned to Aussie, who was surprised at being directly addressed.  
\--You saved our lives. You’re a true friend. Thank you.  
“He said you saved us. And thanks.”  
“I know that one,” said Aussie with a smile, repeating the sign for thank you, bringing his four fingers to his chin and moving them outward.  
Aussie’s accent sometimes made it difficult for Wrench to read his lips, but he adapted to it. He figured the nickname meant that the accent was Australian.  
When Aussie was a new recruit to the Bismarck Syndicate, nearly everyone had some remark about his accent and origin, as evidenced by the new named they dubbed him. For fucks sake, he wasn’t called Aussie in Melbourne!  
“Hey, my friend wants to know how the kangaroos held guns.”  
The one with the beard, Mr. Numbers was his name, asked the new Bismarck Syndicate recruit that in one of their first interactions. The tall man behind him was his constant shadow, as far as Aussie could tell. The other men told him that his name was Mr. Wrench and he was deaf. Aussie knew a deaf woman back in Melbourne, but she wore a hearing aid and would carry verbal conversations. Mr. Wrench never spoke.  
“What?”  
“The kangaroos you worked with. What kind of guns did they have?”  
“Why do you think I worked with kangaroos? ‘Zit because I’m from Australia?”  
“He made me ask because you said you were in a mob… Get it? Like how a bunch of kangaroos is called a mob? Sorry, it’s lame, but he was bugging me to ask you-”  
Aussie burst out laughing and doubled over, grabbing his knees to stay on his feet.  
“You came up with that one?”  
Aussie spoke to Wrench directly. Wrench gave a nod after a moment’s pause.  
“They didn’t have guns, mate. But they kept grenades in their pouches.”  
The shorter man with the beard made complicated hand gestures to the taller man. The taller one smirked. It was the minuscule beginning of a friendship and soon they would each know how deep it ran.  
The Chinese restaurant that Mr. Jergen, Mr. Numbers, and Mr. Wrench were instructed to meet was dimly lit and densely decorated. It smelled of fried fish skins and Wrench wondered if the live fish swimming in the tank by the door could smell it. _Maybe that’s why their eyes were nearly bugging out of their heads. They could be on the menu._  
Three men sat in the back of the restaurant, their backs to the wall so no one could sneak up on them. The bald man on the right side of the table sat close to the man in the middle and had a stack of files in front of him. The man on the left was twice as big the man on the right side. The brains and the brawn. And the man in the middle was the king.  
The bald man leaned into the boss’ ear and whispered, “Mr. Jergen and Mr. Wrench and Numbers of the former Bismarck Syndicate.”  
“Mr. Tripoli, I’m Mr. Jergen. I spoke to Mr. Carlyle over the phone. These are my colleagues Mr. Wrench and Mr. Numbers.” Aussie gestured to the two of them. Numbers put on his most polite smile. Wrench gave a small wave as a greeting.  
Aussie and Mr. Carlyle spoke to each other mostly, discussing the technical boundaries of the territory and what would be expected of them if their informal resume was to be accepted.  
“You three are well qualified. But I have one question,” said Mr. Tripoli. His voice was strong and scratchy. “You killed the boss of the Bismarck Syndicate. You killed his two right hand men. You hand me their territory on a silver plate. And now you’re asking if I’m hiring.” So far none of these statements was a question. “How can I expect you to show any loyalty?”  
The word sent a bristle through Numbers’ blood. Suddenly it was his father sitting at the end of the table in Mr. Tripoli's place. He felt cold and at the same time began to sweat. The time between the question and answer felt like a deep crevasse in a glacier, dark and seemingly bottomless.  
Aussie spoke. “If I may, sir, their actions in the previous days are a positive proof of their loyalty. They were betrayed by their boss because of how loyal they are to one another… I was the one who shot Bismarck. I could have chosen between easy loyalty to him and loyalty to these two. I chose them because they’re true to the ones who matter, not to the ones who treat you like shit, like you’re expendable. So if you treat your employees like people instead of pawns, then you should have nothing to worry about.”  
Wrench had been following the conversation by lip reading. He gestured to Numbers to translate aloud for him and then signed.  
\--The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.  
Hanzee Dent, the man deep behind the new face of the Fargo mob, knew that well. The so-called family that took him in, but only as a soldier and never fully as a son, never fully trusted his loyalty.  
Numbers felt that Wrench’s Shakespearean message was not just for the room, but also a symbolic meaning for their partnership. The next thing that Wrench signed was really just for Numbers, though.  
\--Ask him what the policy of vacation days is.  
\--Oh my god. Do you even know how to do an interview? You’re killing me, here!  
The Fargo Syndicate Boss hid behind his expressionless stare. His face may have changed, but his expression was his oldest weapon. He hid his pain from the teachers at the boarding school who cut his hair. He hid his fear from his troop in Vietnam. He hid his deception from the old Fargo crime syndicate, the people he thought saw him as a son, but really only saw him as a soldier. And now he hid his surprise at the two men who spoke with their hands. They were strikingly similar to the boys in the empty park all those years ago. 

<><><>  
Grady always had a hard time believing people, even the people closest to him. That’s how it had been in the past. When his mom had died, teachers and classmates he’d never even spoken to said they would be there for him. They said they’d be there and listen to him. Grady didn’t believe them. Hell, half of them didn’t even believe themselves when they said it. Nobody would want to listen to the difficult high schooler. He didn’t even believe his best friend, despite the fact that he was always with him. So when Wes had followed him over the old gate and past the stone obelisks of the cemetery at night to stand in silence at his mother’s grave, he had shrugged when Wes had signed --I’ll be here for you.  
His tall friend took his shoulder firmly to get his attention. --No, I mean it. Wherever you go, I’ll be by your side. I want to be there.  
Grady was on the verge of tears. These past months he had been shoving his emotions down like trying to close an overfilled suitcase. Visiting his mother’s resting place had pushed him to just before his emotional limit. But there was something else weighing on his chest. He was about to test the limits of his friend’s loyalty.  
Grady made the one handed sign; thumb, forefinger and pinky splayed outward.  
\--I love you.  
Wrench responded quickly, --I know.  
It reminded him of that space movie that Wes insisted Grady sign every single line to him after sneaking into the theater and watching it over ten times.  
\--No, I mean… Look, I’m going to tell you something and I want you to promise to be my friend no matter what. You don’t have to agree or even say anything if you don’t want to. Just promise that we can go back to this being friends, like we are right here and right now. Okay? I love you. And I love how you’ve been my friend my whole life and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. And I want to be able to come home to you at night and have dinner with you and kiss you and watch tv on the couch with you under a blanket when it’s cold outside-  
Grady’s signing became faster, like marbles spilling down a staircase. Wes took both Grady’s hands like catching a firefly. Their eyes made contact and Wes leaned forward. He gently tilted Grady’s head upwards and kissed him deeply, like he’d always known how to do it. Suddenly the overflowing suitcase of emotions inside Grady didn’t matter. All his problems and fears and anxieties just melted away, like they had been defeated. He was stunned, but only for a moment. Then he kissed back with equal amounts hunger and relief.  
\--I’ll always be here for you. Wherever you go, I’ll be by your side.  
Grady believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed my writing. This is the end of the story, but I want to write more Fargo stories.


End file.
